


Lost, Found and Loved

by Liitohauki



Series: Lost and Loved [1]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cannibalism, Gen, Jotun!Loki, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, Jötunn Loki, Necromancy, Odin never finds Loki, aftermath of war, raised on Jötunheim
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-02
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3667794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liitohauki/pseuds/Liitohauki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of Jötunheim's defeat, a scavenger goes out to look for loot at the temple and finds something valuable left behind by both parties.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost, Found and Loved

**Author's Note:**

> There's some Finnish in this story. If you hover the cursor over the Finnish text, an English translation should pop up. For those who have trouble reading the hover text, translations are also available in the end notes.

The polar night is nearly silent. All that can be heard is the whistling wind, the sound of hooves on snow and the shush of a sleigh’s runners as it races across the ice. Nál holds tight to the reins as she banks left, deftly avoiding obstacles with the ease of long practice. It’s high moon by the time she reaches the Temple of Aurgelmir. She crests the hill without haste, pulling on the reins. Her hallaporo trot to a stop and she steps out of the sleigh to survey the field. The sight that greets her stops her cold.

The ground is littered with corpses.

In the light of two full moons, she can see the glint of cold metal across the recent battlefield. There must be a battalion’s worth of dead, both Asgardian and jötun alike, lying on blood soaked ice at the feet of the temple.

Nál has barely a mind to contain her exited screech: she mustn’t get careless, now. There’s no telling what else might be nearby, whether it be a lost soul come to squat in the ruins or a direvarg tempted by the smell of corpse meat. Still, she can’t help but grin at the two hallaporo trailing after her, their frost-covered antlers glittering in the moonlight. It’s a good thing she came prepared: both a good half a dozen handspans taller than her seven foot frame, Ruoskalapa and Kuokkakavio are the largest of her herd, easily capable of pulling a loaded sleigh.

She is giddy. The Wanderer has blessed her this trip.

“Looks like we’ve got quite a haul this time. Come, now.”

She makes a wet smacking sound and tugs on the reins, leading their descent down the snowy hill at a brisk pace. There’s a bounce to her step, and she dares hum the opening verse to the hymn _the Gifts of Death_ as they make their way over.

It seems as though she’s the first scavenger with courage enough to approach the temple. The bodies around her are still in their armour and mostly intact, if not for their battle wounds. Nál knows she won’t be able to bring back a quarter of the equipment. She needs to sort through the pickings for the best loot, and leave the rest behind. She leaves Ruoskalapa and Kuokkakavio untethered, secure in the knowledge that they won’t run off with the sleigh. They’re content enough to stay put and graze on frozen faces while she goes on. 

It’s the work of a moment to carve sigils of manoeuvrability and motion into the flesh of the nearest corpses. She ties a strand of white hair around each of their wrists before she charges the sigils and watches in satisfaction as her helpers rise. Mindless and clumsy, they stagger about on frozen limbs that crack and groan as they move. She sets them to work hauling their fellow corpses into a row for easy inspection, and then sets off for the temple doors.

The last time Nál was inside, she was little more than a child hanging onto her mother’s kilt. She remembers grand halls stretching far above her head, glowing from within with power; the air was filled with the chime of a thousand ice bells ringing in harmony. The halls are still grand, but now they’re dark and silent. The corpses here are mostly Asgardian and more damaged than outside, the consequence of running afoul of the temple’s protective wards, meant to keep out hostile invaders.

She creeps around the carnage on silent feet, stopping occasionally to rifle through possessions and keeping an eye out for anything of greater value she could stuff in her bags. She has little luck. The Asgardians have certainly earned their reputation as the plunderers of the Nine Realms.

It isn’t until she reaches the Chamber of Voices that her luck takes a turn.

The room bares the marks of a desperate last stand: the doorway is piled high with Asgardian corpses, dozens upon dozens of warriors unlucky enough to be caught in a bottle neck, while at the centre of the circular chamber there lies more dead Asgardians surrounding a group of jötnar. Nál’s eyes widen when she realizes the jötnar all bear the mark of the Jalokaarti, the royal guards tasked with the safety of the King herself. This group was nine strong: spellcasters and icecarvers of the highest order, the emblems on their chests marking them as the elite of the elite in King Laufey’s troops.

They must have been guarding Aurgelmir's Heart. It's gone now, taken by the Asgardians, but their equipment is still here.

Her mouth waters at the thought of royal grade gear, left lying about and hers for the taking. She can see what looks like a greensteel staff gripped in the hand of one of the corpses, an intricately carved whalebone torque around the neck of another, even some seastones that still hum with power scattered on the floor. 

She is weighing the merits of carving out the emblems from the guards’ chests when she hears it: a cry so faint it could well be a trick of the wind. Nál stops, looking around herself warily. Just as she would dismiss the sound, she hears it again, longer and louder. She puts no stock in restless spirits – the dead have better things to do than haunt the living – but for the life of her, she can think of little else that could be the cause of such an unsettling keen.

The crying does not cease. She hefts the greensteel staff in front of her and goes looking, senses alert and steps slow and careful. It’s hard to pinpoint where the sound is coming from: it echoes in the empty chamber, reverberating off of scorched walls and domed ceiling.

When she finally finds its source, she is stunned.

There is an infant cradled in the arms of a tenth guard, gone unnoticed because the guard is lying curled in a hidden space. There is a blade through the guard's back, a dead Asgardian by her feet and a sigil for secrecy and concealment painted in blood on the floor. The infant is tiny, dwarfed by the hand of the jötun that holds her even in death. Her mouth is dark with blood, and Nál is certain the little corpse-feeder has been suckling on the flesh of her protector to keep alive.

Now that she can see she has an audience, her wails have grown in volume and intensity. Nál has half a mind to silence the baby with a swift staff blow to the head, but something stays her hand. Instead, she puts the staff away and forms a blade, crouching low. With the blade, she cuts off a swath of the yellow cape the dead Asgardian is wearing and reaches for the child, pulling her roughly away from the corpse she clings to and bundling her up.

“Hei sie nalliainen,” she murmurs, cradling her find close. The baby stops crying as soon as she hears her voice, pressing her little head against Nál’s chest and staring up with big, luminous red eyes. She’s a peculiar thing, not just small but with _ears_ and even a few soft strands of hair.

_Like me._

There’s a feeling, something cold and soft as fresh snow falling in her heart. She opts to ignore it – feelings should always come second to practicality. What use would she have for a child?

_I could teach her. Even if she’s got no talent for magecraft, the herd’s getting bigger; could use a second set of eyes and hands to care for the hallaporo and train the vargs. She’s a little thing, won’t likely eat much nor take up space…_

But she’d have to raise the infant to an appropriate age first. If she needed an apprentice underfoot, she could just as easily fetch one from the outlying villages for half as much fuss.

_Not as much fuss as all that. She’s quiet now, isn’t she? Knows when to keep shut. Besides, she’s in Aurgelmir’s temple, surrounded by corpses of the Jalokaarti. She’s important._

“Mitäs tällainen pikku nulikka tekee ypöyksin isossa salissa?” she wonders out loud, looking speculatively at the child, this peculiar child that a member of the royal guard had died protecting.

She feels soft pressure around one of her fingers. The baby has reached out one stubby arm to grab a hold of her hand, which had been idly stroking her head, and is now trying to pull Nál’s thumb into her mouth. She lets the child gnaw on her nail, using the opportunity to surreptitiously check that she has all of her teeth. The little one’s only a moon or two, judging by them. They’re as sharp as any jötun infant’s, though Nál would wager this one’s bite has grown uncommonly vicious with hunger and loneliness.

“Älä sie huoli, pikku haaskalintu. Mie huolehin kyllä siusta,” she promises, rising to her feet. There’s that feeling again, like someone’s gone and filled her heart with snow. She pulls her hand out of the child’s grip. Her babe lets out a distressed little mewl, but quiets down when Nál strokes her fingers gently down her brow.

It looks as though she’s found treasure after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is something that's been rattling around my head lately. This is likely going to be the first snippet to a series of drabbles about a Loki who was never found by Odin. Instead, Loki gets picked up by a corpse-robbing witch who lives by herself in a cave.
> 
> Translations for the Finnish in the fic:
> 
> “Hei sie nalliainen.” = "Hey you ((endearment meaning small child))."
> 
> “Mitäs tällainen pikku nulikka tekee ypöyksin isossa salissa?" = "What's a little brat like you doing all alone in this big hall?"
> 
> “Älä sie huoli, pikku haaskalintu. Mie huolehin kyllä siusta.” = "Don't you worry, little carrion bird. I'll take care of you."
> 
> "Jalokaarti" means "noble guard".
> 
> "Hallaporo" is a made up name for a fictional animal. The name consists of the Finnish words “halla” (frost, specifically frost that occurs at ground level during the growing season) and “poro” (reindeer).
> 
> "Ruoskalapa" means "whip shoulder" (I imagined the animal in question to have marks on the fur of its shoulder reminiscent of whip marks) and "Kuokkakavio" means "spade hoof" (okay, the word kuokka means more like hoe/mattock, but the point is that this one's an enthusiastic digger).


End file.
